be believed in even by the imagined
sufferer.

Nothing could have been more characteristic of Irene. Wit at the
service of good feeling expressed her nature.

Her visit this time would be specially interesting, for she had passed
the winter in Finland, amid the intellectual society of Helsingfors.
Letters had given a foretaste of what she would have to tell, but Irene
was no great letter-writer. She had an impatience of remaining seated
at a desk. She did not even read very much. Her delight was in
conversation, in movement, in active life. For several years her father
had made her his companion, as often as possible, in holiday travel and
on the journeys prompted by scientific study. Though successful as a
medical man, Dr. Derwent no longer practised; he devoted himself to
pathological research, and was making a name in the world of science.
His wife, who had died young, left him two children; the elder,
Eustace, was an amiable and intelligent young man, but had small place
in his father's life compared with that held by Irene.

She was to arrive at Ewell in time for luncheon. Her brother would
bring her, and return to London in the afternoon.

Olga walked to the station to meet them. Mrs. Hannaford having paid
unusual attention to her dress--she had long since ceased to care how
she looked, save on very exceptional occasions--moved impatiently,
nervously, about the house and the garden. Her age was not yet forty,
but a life of disappointment and unrest had dulled her complexion, made
her movements languid, and was beginning to touch with grey her soft,
wavy hair. Under happier circumstances she would have been a most
attractive woman; her natural graces were many, her emotions were vivid
and linked with a bright intelligence, her natural temper inclined to
the nobler modes of life. Unfortunately, little care had been given to
her education; her best possibilities lay undeveloped; thrown upon her
inadequate resources, she nourished the weaknesses instead of the
virtues of her nature. She was always saying to herself that life had
gone by, and was wasted; for life meant love, and love in her
experience had been a flitting folly, an error of crude years, which
should, in all justice, have been thrown aside and forgotten, allowing
her a second chance. Too late, now. Often she lay through the long
nights shedding tears of misery. Too late; her beauty blurred, her
heart worn with suffering, often poisoned with bitternes